Waking Up
by Ungulateman
Summary: A modern-day AU story. Chrom finds an amnesiac woman on the streets of Ylisstol, but as she gets drawn deeper into the affairs of the Pastukhs, more than her own life is in danger as the dark secrets of her past come to hunt her down. Chrom/Avatar. Rated T for violence and mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Serious Business Warning**

This story fairly directly discusses rape and sexual violence. If you're not comfortable with this or it's a trigger for you, please don't read this story.

For that matter, this story is also going to be pretty violent, have a fair amount of coarse language, and touch on some sensitive political issues in an alternate-history fashion. Fair warning.

0o0o0

I feel the assailant's teeth shatter as I slam my fist into his jaw, the resonating _crack_ both disgusting and elating as the woman he was forcing himself onto collapses. He turns, still holding onto consciousness, in time to eat another punch, this one a short jab into his nose. I've learned from experience that if I do _that_ one too hard, I've got a corpse, not an unconscious scumbag.

But when your sister is half pope and half princess, you can get away with a lot.

He falls over in a heap on the bitumen, and I wince and suck my bloody knuckles. I'm a good brawler, but I can't hit someone that hard without Newton's third law coming back to bite me in the ass. I turn to find my sister, Lissa (not the one I mentioned earlier) rifling through a first aid kit, looking at me, the woman and man in a constant panicked succession. The back alley smells mostly of piss and sweat, but there's the unmistakable tinge of blood in the air as well. I just hope it's ours, not the woman's.

"Her first," I bark out. "Then him. Then me." It's only fair; we came here to help _her_, after all, whoever she might be. And even a lowlife like that rapist deserves to live. Our older sister raised us better than to let a man fail to make up for his wrongs. She nods stiffly, blonde ponytails bouncing in a distinctly uncheery manner. I hate doing this to her, I really do, but I can barely put on a bandage and she's a _wizard_ at this kind of thing.

That's us: Chrom and Lissa Korolshenko, brother and sister to the Most Exalted Emmeryn Korolshenko, leader of the Ylissean independence movement and spiritual figurehead of the fledgling nation. We don't have an army. We barely have a police force - they'd rather drink than chase criminals, assuming they aren't sitting in the back rooms counting bribes or out committing the crimes they're supposed to stop.

That's where the Pastukhs come in, and I'm their commander. In the West, in a country with law and order, we'd be feared vigilantes on the wrong side of the law. Here, we operate with the consent if not approval of my older sister, and the populace is thankful there's someone on the job. I can't say the streets are safe at night thanks to me, but they're safer; and that's enough.

By the time my internal monologue is done, my second-in-command Frederick Jagenholdt has returned, out of breath but with his suit barely out of place. He's one of the few Pastukhs with formal training, as a bodyguard to the former Soviet Union, and it shows in his gait and manner. He cuts an imposing figure even in a cheap suit, and he makes good use of that; the thugs accompanying this rapist scattered as soon as he turned up.

As he approaches, he slides his mobile phone back into his pocket, and brushes off Lissa's concerned look with nary a glance. Instead, he addresses me. "His _associates_ fled. The commissioner is letting us have this case." 'The commissioner' is one Captain Phila, the closest thing Ylisse has to a military commander. She's unconnected to the Pastukhs, but serves as a kind of liaison. With her off the case, the Pastukhs have the last word on what happens to these two.

Does that sound like I'm an inch from turning into a power-mad maniac? I suppose it does. That's the thing, though; I've always got Emmeryn's example to follow, and Phila knows it. When the FSU crumbled, it was her that won us our independence without firing a shot or throwing a rock. If it wasn't for the West's ignorance, she'd have won a Nobel Peace Prize. Half pope, half princess. How could I take a step wrong with her looking over my shoulder?

Lissa's nearly done with the woman that was attacked, but as she examines her for identification, she comes up empty. "Nothing. This woman's a blank," she says, half to herself.

"Probably an undocumented migrant," Frederick says, a mixture of contempt and disinterest in his voice. "You know how it is." I'm not going to pretend Ylisse is a paradise, but compared to some of the former Soviet bloc, it's a marked improvement. Where's she from, I wonder? Latvia? Ukraine?

"So we've got no leads on her?" I ask, expecting and getting a shake of my sister's head in response. "Ugh. We'll have to ask this _man_." I squeeze all the contempt I can into that last word.

"Chrom, we have to do _something_," she pleads.

"What do you propose we do?" I reply. I'm open to suggestions, honestly; this is the first time I've encountered a _victim_ who was the unknown entity.

She purses her lips. "I…I don't know," she admits, and her head slumps in defeat. I lean down to comfort her when the woman stirs, and deep brown eyes start to take in the world around her.

We both move to hold her still. She isn't badly injured, but we don't want her panicking either. "I see you're awake now," I say gently, trying to communicate with my tone and attitude rather than the words themselves. She might not even speak our language, after all.

"Hey there," Lissa whispers softly, a sweet smile on her face. The woman goggles a little at the pair of us, and when she tries to sit up, she ends up rolling on her side instead. I turn to Frederick, about to say _We need to take her to the safe house_ when he nods and goes to retrieve the car. He's always been fast on the uptake.

The woman looks like she's about to fall asleep again, so I gently nudge her, whispering "There're better places to sleep than on the ground, you know." I hold out both hands in what I hope is a welcoming, friendly gesture. "Here. Let me help you up." And as she takes her hands in mine, a snaking purple tattoo on one wrist burning under the harsh fluorescent lights, I pull her to her feet, and we see eye to eye for the first time.

0o0o0

A/N: This…is certainly a thing. Please leave a review if you have anything to say.

There's a lot of assumed or barely hinted-at knowledge involved in this AU, so allow me to try and establish the basics. All will be told in due time!

Ylisse is part of the former USSR, a tiny Eastern European country that won its independence by the efforts of the Most Exalted Emmeryn Korolshenko at the tender age of nine. She's basically Malala Yousafzai, Gandhi and the Pope all rolled into one.

Because Emmeryn's a radical pacifist, Ylisse has no military. Because they're part of the former Soviet Union, the law enforcement is incompetent at best and criminal at worst. That's why she tolerates her brother and the Pastukhs dealing out vigilante justice across Ylisse.


	2. Chapter 2

The ride back to the safe house is crowded with five of us in the car. There's nobody to punish Frederick for breaking the speed limit and the streets are empty of cars at this time of night, so he makes a furious pace on the way 'home'. Lissa accepted the front seat with all the grace and poise of a girl half her age, leaving me in the back with the drooling limp body of a rapist and his near-victim.

Lissa shared with me that we'd got there just in time, but even then it was too late. The victim was clearly traumatised just by the attempt, and I feel sick to my stomach that we have to put her in the same car as her attacker. She's shivering despite the heat from the car's engine behind us, pressed into the corner of her seat to get as far away from him as she could.

I want to reach out and comfort her, but after I pulled her up to her feet she'd flinched and broke away, and any attempts to help except for Lissa's were met with fear and anger. I settle for examining both of them, this incredibly mismatched pair of strangers drawn into the Pastukhs' net.

He's short, dark-haired and pale, green eyes rolled back in their sockets as he lolls there, looking barely older than my sister. His swollen jaw, cursorily reset with some help from Frederick, would hopefully be a painful reminder of his crime, and the missing teeth a fitting memento. He's grubbily dressed, dark and dirty clothes fairly typical to the streets of Ylisstol. We'll dump him at the police station and the cops will keep him for a few nights until somebody's palm is greased enough.

She, on the other hand, makes a very different impression on me, even sitting in a fetal position silently shuddering at her attacker. Her hair is long and white, though streaks of dirt ran through the whole mass; like blood stains on a cocktail dress. Her deep brown eyes are full of pain and little else, staring into space as she softly weeps. The soft white bandages my sister had wrapped around her wounds stand out against her black cloak. We're going to take her back to our base, give her somewhere to stay until we can find out who she is and where she's from, then get her back home as best we can.

Once again I repress the urge to embrace her and tell her she'd be alright, and I stare forward between the front seats at the road ahead. We had to lock the doors when we put her assailant inside the car, but when I sat between them she calmed down enough for us to drive without restraining her further. I still didn't dare touch her again, not like how I'd held her hands earlier.

"Chrom," I hear her whisper. Turning to face her, she flinches at my gaze, whimpering and mumbling "pleasedonthurtmepleasedonthurtme…" My heart breaks then and there, and I wish Emmeryn was here. She always knew what to do.

I hold my hands up, palms forward, the universal gesture of peace. "I'm not going to hurt you," I slowly whisper back, thankful she speaks at least a little Ylissean. "I need you to stay calm. Do you know who I am?" I ask, knowing she knew my name at least.

"N-no," she chokes out past her tears. "Just your name. Chrom."

I reach out and gently take her hand, and while her breath hitches, she doesn't refuse the gesture. "It'll be okay," I say consolingly. "You're safe now. We'll make sure you're okay, then we can take you home, alright?"

Her nails claw at the inside of my palm, and I wince a little at the sharp sensation. "N-no!" she hisses, anguish in her eyes. "I-I've forgotten everything! I have no home, I don't even have a name. All I remember is _your_ name!"

I'm floored by the terror and shock in her fierce gaze, and my eyes widen in reciprocal surprise. Lissa turns back in her seat to face us, a sorrowful expression on her face. "I've heard of this," she says gloomily. "The trauma might have given her retrograde amnesia. Sometimes survivors intentionally destroy their sense of self; it lets them disassociate themselves from their experience."

She shudders, but shakes her head with the same determination she had just moments before. "N-no. I remember…I remember what he tried to do to me. But apart from that…it's just waking up with you two standing over me."

Frederick huffs, and I dread what's coming next. My second-in-command is blunt at best and abusive at worst; he's the last person a survivor needs to talk to. "A foreign woman with no identification just happens to lose all her memory after being attacked? Please. She's an illegal, sir; I say we give her to the police and wash our hands of this issue."

I don't dare hit him or even rebuke him too loudly while he's at the wheel, but I stare him down in the rear view mirror nonetheless. "The police are as liable to finish what this scumbag started," I say, gesturing to our still-unconscious passenger. "I don't care if she's the princess of Denmark or a Russian spy, she's coming with us."

Frederick sighs extremely briefly before replying, "Yes, sir."

She doesn't smile, but the tears stop and her expression brightens imperceptibly. "Thank you, Chrom," she whispers again, and slowly, hesitantly, she leans on me, head on my shoulder.

0o0o0

We give the attacker to the police; at the very least, it'll keep him off the streets for a while, even if he does bribe his way out eventually. The Pastukhs don't have the time or resources to handle him personally. Phila will probably chew me out over sending him back after she handed jurisdiction over to us, but there really isn't a good solution to the problem.

Frederick pulls the car into the garage of our safe house. It's a fairly large complex in one of the safer areas of the capital Ylisstol, but its best security is that it doesn't stand out. Every building here has high fences topped with razor wire, and security cameras are hardly a rarity either. Ours might be better maintained, thanks to my family's connections, but it's not unique for the Ylissean rich to live in a fortress.

Frederick takes his equipment out of the back, two suitcases full of weapons, tools and assorted useful things he brings everywhere. Lissa heads to the clinic she and her friend Maribelle operate for the Pastukhs, looking for the less-immediate medical supplies she needs for our injuries. I gently lead the woman to the lounge, where she finally lets go of my hand and lays down.

"The rest of my group will be here when you wake up. Just tell them Chrom brought you here, they'll understand," I say to her, giving her a pat on the shoulder as I leave to talk to Maribelle. She nods back, quiet again after her outburst on the way back. "I'm going to go see Lissa, my sister, but I won't be long. Try and get some rest."

"Thank you, Chrom," she says again, and I get a little bit warm and fuzzy from the sheer gratitude in her tone. She shifts a little on the couch, adjusting the cushions and generally squirming to fit on the inappropriate piece of furniture for the job, then closes her eyes and tries to sleep.

I can't contain my smile at how peaceful she looks now, after such a harrowing experience. Turning off the light, I quietly close the door and head to the clinic.

_Squeak, squeak, squeak._

The linoleum floor under my shoes is a perpetual annoyance that I'm glad to bear. Back home, in the palatial residence my sister owns, the floors are antique hardwood from before the Revolution. Emmeryn protested in the strongest terms a woman as peaceful as she could over the tremendous resources put into making her comfortable while people froze and starved outside. The least I can do is be frugal with the Pastukhs' budget.

Maribelle is busy brushing down Lissa when I enter 'the OR', as some of the more sardonic Patukhs put it (Maribelle's actually a qualified surgeon, although it's a rare day where that's needed). The change from lightweight street clothes to medical scrubs doesn't change my sister's mood, though; she's still giggling at whatever idle gossip her friend has picked up lately, and gives a cheery wave as I enter.

"Chrom!" Maribelle calls out. "I must ask you refrain from hitting people so hard you hurt yourself! It's not good for you." Her wink lightens the already light-hearted jibe, and I chuckle in response.

"I can hardly refuse your orders, can I, _Doctor_ Maribelle?" I drawl sarcastically in return, and she smirks as I hold out my bloodied knuckles for further inspection. She peels off the bandaids Lissa hurriedly put over the now-weeping sores, and I hiss through my teeth at the sight rather than the pain. It's not infected, luckily, but the wounds are pussy and the surrounding skin looks badly bruised.

"Pass me the anti-bac, would you dear?" Maribelle off-handedly asks, taking the gel my sister finds for her without even turning to look. Immediately attacking the minor injuries, she sterilises my hand thoroughly and rewraps my knuckles in cloth bandages. "That should be all. Assuming you didn't get any saliva or blood in your wounds, this should clear up within a day or two. If you start running a temperature or feel dizzy, come to me immediately."

"Thanks, Mary," I reply, a grin on my face. She _hates_ that nickname.

"You're welcome, Blueblood," she shoots back. It's too easy, really, with my distinctive cobalt hair and borderline royalty status, but it's a good one. "Just be glad I'm not in it for the money." Her smirk reappears with a vengeance, and I thank my lucky stars she's not lying. She really is an incredible doctor, and she left behind the chance for a rich, easy life in the West to help us.

I turn to my sister, and I bring up the other reason I came down here beyond my own needs. "Lissa, you told the good doctor about our new guest, right?"

She rolls her eyes theatrically. "Duh, Chrom. We'll wait until morning before we bother her; she needs time to rest. Speaking of which, you should get some sleep too." She nudges me lightly with an elbow. "Come on! Off to bed!"

Returning her eye roll with compound interest, I make my way back out. "Good night, Maribelle. Good night sis."

"Farewell, Chrom!"

"G'night brother!"

_Squeak, squeak, squeak._

I hear noises coming from the lounge as I pass it on my way to bed. Our mystery woman is talking - in her sleep, or to one of the Pastukhs? I decide to quickly check in on her. As the door swings open, I'm shocked by what I see.

Our guest is thrashing wildly in her sleep, clutching the tattoo on the back of her hand with the other, mumbling nonsense as she does so. "_Not Nikita_!" she suddenly screams, much louder than anything else she's said. "_Don't take her! NOT MY CHILD!_" While I wince at the volume and pitch of her dream-induced yelling, I decide she needs my help, now.

Rushing over to her, I grasp her shoulders and roughly shake her awake. The screams die in her throat as she starts back into consciousness, and she recoils, silently flailing out of my grip. She falls off the couch, rolls remarkably acrobatically, and balls up on the floor. Her eyes, glazed over until now, flicker back into awareness, and she slowly unfurls into a sitting position, turning to face me.

"Hey, are you okay?" I ask rhetorically, reaching out a hand. "I think you were having a nightmare."

She shakes her head, gently clasping her un-tattooed hand in mine as she meets my eyes. "I was remembering - it's still so little, but I was remembering. My mother." She halts there, gulping back the urge to sob. "Nikita. My name is Nikita."

0o0o0

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please, leave a review if you have anything to say at all.

I decided to rename the Avatar for this to fit the environment a little better. Nikita's even gender neutral, like Robin! This may not be the last person we see with a different name, either.

From here on out we're going to see a lot more divergence from the game's plot, pacing and even characterisation. I really hope you guys enjoy my take on the archest of archers, in particular.


	3. Chapter 3

In spite of everything, I manage to get a decent night's sleep. By the time I wake up, the other Pastukhs are going about their usual morning business. Thankfully, it's Stahl's turn to make breakfast, so our new guest's first meal with the Pastukhs should be a good one.

"How'd last night go?" Vaike asks me as I start digging into my bacon and eggs. He's the closest friend I've got outside my family; always there to lend a hand or hear me out. I toss my head lightly in Nikita's direction, swallow my current mouthful of food, and respond "Fairly quiet, except for her. Found her in the southern markets, getting attacked by some thugs. Her name's Nikita."

He grimaces. Vaike's no stranger to the rough streets of Ylisstol - he was born and bred there - but he picks up what I'm implying and he doesn't like it. "Jesus. How's she holding up?"

"She's getting better, but she doesn't remember where she's from or much of who she is. I was going to let her stay here until we can find somewhere safe for her."

He nods, easy-going as always. "Anything I can do to help, Chrom?"

I shrug. "Try and make her feel welcome, I guess. Just dial down on the usual Vaike charm." He chuckles softly at my last jab, then gets up and walks over, and I tune out as he introduces himself as "the Vaike". Some things never change. Stahl comes in with another plate of food for Nikita, apologizing for the delay.

I take my plate back into the kitchen, where our favourite cook is busy stacking dishes for the others to clean later; the cook never cleans up, after all. "Have you seen Sully today, Stahl?" I ask, adding my dish to the ever-growing pile.

"Not yet, captain," he replies. "There was a dispute at the airport first thing this morning, something about an asylum claim getting complicated, and since you and Fred were dead on your feet she had seniority."

I frown. Ylisse has been taking in asylum seekers for the last few months now, ever since the US signed a non-aggression pact with China after the Diaoyu debacle. It's not so much a war as an expansion; South-East Asia's rolling over quietly, but Japan and Australia haven't given up even without the world's former superpower on the playing field. Everywhere east of Turkey is too scared of China's retaliation to accept refugees; everywhere west of there is making too much money off their agreements with the new world leader.

Oh, other countries will take desperate Japanese and Australian runaways, sure, but only Ylisse is willing to honour our UN obligations to refugees. I shudder, remembering the pictures of the 'work camps' in Russia Emmeryn showed me. These people need our help; this is beyond political games.

"Ugh. Do you know where she is now? Frederick, Lissa and I need to see Emmeryn, and I need her in charge while we're gone - and I need to tell her about Nikita." Lissa and I have semi-regular meetings with our sister, depending on how chaotic either of our schedules are; it's unfortunate timing for Nikita, but I really do want to see Emm again.

"Nikita's the new girl you picked up, right? Vaike can fill her in when she gets back. She's driving back now, so it won't be long; I can keep everything in order until she's here."

"Alright. Do me a favour and make sure nobody bothers her. She's hardly in the best state right now." I turn to leave, before casting a glance back over my shoulder. "Thanks, Stahl. Keep up the good work."

He smiles in return. "Any time, captain."

0o0o0

Lissa and I pile into the car again, Frederick tapping impatiently at the steering wheel. The last I saw of Nikita, she was being tended to by Maribelle, so she should get some peace and quiet away from Vaike's boisterousness. Once we're in, he opens the electronic gates and slides the car out with practiced ease.

Ylisse's streets aren't crowded. Petrol prices have skyrocketed after the Straits of Malacca became a warzone, so being able to run a car is an unaffordable luxury for most. There's a handful of pedestrians making their way around and we pass a few cyclists, but apart from that, we're alone on the road.

Then, about halfway to the palace, the wheels burst and a quartet of Range Rovers scream around the corner. Lissa screams and ducks into the space in front of her while I throw myself flat over the back seat. Frederick skids in a semi-circle, head down and scrabbling for the pistol at his waist. I hear gunfire, hopefully shots fired into the air to scare off any civilians.

This isn't my first brush with the Mafia but I hope to God it isn't my last. Glass shatters somewhere. Lissa is still screaming. I look out the window for a moment; men have started getting out of the SUVs, revolvers and pistols in hand. Frederick loads his own gun, but I'm not stupid; we're not going to be able to fight our way out of this.

Their leader's more flamboyantly dressed than the others, all cufflinks and gold. It's a sharp contrast with the bastard child of an AK-47 he's holding, Ylisse's own _Naginata_ assault rifle. He smiles, showing off some more ornamentation in his mouth. I duck back down immediately, but I know he's spotted me. He starts yelling so that we can hear him despite the ringing in our ears. "_Prince_ Chrom!" he begins mockingly, "Surrender now and you might just keep your head!"

Frederick turns to face me, desperation in his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. All his other firepower is in the boot, disregarding the fact there's a dozen of them, no matter if they're just hired goons. Emmeryn would do anything to get me and Lissa back. "Surrender or die" is a lose-lose situation.

"We're quite open to _negotiation_, little prince, but we don't have all day! Get out here!"

An impossibly loud, impossibly distant _crack_ echoes through the street. There's a _thump_ of someone falling over, and when their boss speaks, it's with an utterly shocked tone. "A sniper?" he shouts, and there's a mixture of panicked muttering and boots hitting bitumen before he yells "Get back here, you mongrels!"

A second shot rings out. Another _thump_. I cautiously poke my head up, and the Range Rovers are squealing away; self-preservation wins out, it seems, once their leader's dead. There's no guarantee the sniper is friendly, but after a few seconds of silence, I nod to Frederick, and he opens the door, stepping outside, pistol at the ready.

I sit up and lean over to tap Lissa on the shoulder. Her uneven breathing slows and calms as she realises we're safe, and she turns to hug me fiercely. "That was too close," she whispers.

"I know," I whisper back. I'm at a loss for words; once again I wish Emmeryn was here so she could comfort her younger sister.

"It's safe," Frederick calls out, and we unceremoniously crawl out of the car, trying not to look at or think about the dead men in the street. A door swings open creakily, and Frederick spins faster than I've ever seen him move, gun at the ready.

Sully walks out of a nearby building, next to a foreign-looking stranger with a bolt-action rifle slung across his back. The redheaded Pastukh lazily salutes as she approaches.

Frederick sighs, lowers his pistol, and asks "What, exactly, happened here, Sully?"

She glances at our saviour before answering. "This damn genius wanted to bring _that_" she points to the gun "into Ylisse, and Customs got snippy. I told 'em if we can't handle some fucking yank with a rifle, how could we beat back these goddamn gangs?" Gesturing vaguely at the corpses, she grunts. "Then I got a SMS from one of our moles saying they were going after you, captain, and this idiot wanted to come with. Didn't want to drag a civvy into it, but looks like it worked out."

"Worked out?" he says in an offended tone, and I'm immediately surprised an Australian refugee would know any Ylissean. "The prince'd be dead without me, sweetheart." Turning to face me, he bows with just a touch of facetiousness. "Virion, at your service; the sharpest of snipers, the-" Then something clicks over in his head and he swings back sharply to Sully. "Did you just call me a _yank_?"

"Australian, American, who the fuck gives a shit, Ruffles, you're all rich assholes who speak _English_."

"Yes, English, the language I'm so clearly relying on right now," he drawls sarcastically. "I never thought I'd learn more Ylissean swears from such a lovely woman than my own grandfather taught me, let alone in a single morning."

"Stop with the flattery before I flatten your face, Ruffles."

I bury my face in one hand. "Can we focus on the fact that a dozen men just tried to kill me and Lissa?" I state in a forced calm. Virion immediately shuts up, halfway through some witty retort, while Sully grunts again. "Yes, Captain."

"Do you think we're compromised, Frederick? Or did they just get lucky?" I ask.

He frowns thoughtfully in response, before finally saying "I can't say for certain, sir, but I don't think so. We're close enough to the palace for them to expect us to come past here, and we've been using this car for several months now. The only person of any suspicion is Nikita, but she couldn't have contacted anyone in such a short time - I don't believe we even told her where we were going."

I sigh, taking a moment to check the wheels of our vehicle. They're shot to hell, probably during that initial burst that sent us diving for cover. "Right. Sully, I still need to see Emmeryn. Get your car. Virion's with us until further notice. We can discuss the rest later." Sully salutes sharply, jogging off to wherever she parked her car, while Virion pulls his rifle off his back and starts cleaning it up.

He's paler than the Australian image I have in my head, and lanky too. His hair's a silver-grey all the way to the roots - premature aging, perhaps? And he's wearing a _cravat_ of all things - that must be where the 'Ruffles' nickname came from. "So, Virion," I begin, and he looks up coolly from his weapon, "Your grandfather taught you Ylissean?"

He smirks a little. "He emigrated from here to Australia, and he didn't want us to lose our roots. Looks like it paid off, eh?"

I don't reply to that, just examining his weapon of choice. I'm no expert, but it's clearly designed for sniping, with a stocky bipod and a massive scope. Virion grins as I take in the black beauty. "A genuine Blaser Tactical 2," he drawls in an exaggerated Australian accent. His grin disappears as something shifts in his eyes, suddenly full of melancholy. "It's all I really have left of home."

"Your family didn't get visas?" I ask sympathetically. He shakes his head, looking down at the gun again.

"My parents wouldn't go; they wouldn't 'abandon the country they loved'. My sister," his breath hitches, "she signed up with the army. God, I still can't believe that." He puts his rifle back on his back as Sully pulls up in her sedan, and suddenly the insufferably smug flirt that must have given her fits at the airport is back. "Back for more, sweetheart?"

She decks him almost casually. "Shut up, Ruffles." Then she turns to me. "I'd say you should have the front seat, Captain, but I don't wanna leave a lech like him in the back seat with Lissa."

"Not even with Frederick between them?" I counter, and she blinks, considering it. "Then again, I don't think Fred will fit into the middle seat."

Lissa's patching up Virion's now-misshapen nose, light-heartedly scolding him. "Be thankful it isn't broken." He feebly protests that he's not a pervert, but none of us are listening.

Sully wrinkles her nose at the scene. "I'm not putting _him_ in the front," she scowls. "Even if we don't crash I'll break his neck anyway."

While we're arguing, Lissa cheerily opens the front side door and sits down, giving us a mischievous smile when we finally realise she's made up our minds for us. Chuckling, the rest of us get in with no particular rhyme or reason, and we make our way to the palace to see Emmeryn again.

0o0o0

Virion's not allowed into the palace, unsurprisingly, so Sully volunteers to make sure he doesn't wander off and get himself in trouble. Frederick escorts us to our sister, royal guards keeping a watchful eye on us at all times.

We enter the guest room where Emmeryn receives us - she has plenty of gaudy areas for official dignitaries and the like, but for us it's more personal and private. She's waiting there, serene and regal as ever. Her robes of office are spotless, the tattoo of Exaltation on her forehead exposed by her hair pulled to either side, and she has the kindest smile of anyone I've ever seen on her face.

"Chrom, Lissa," she says gently. "How wonderful to see you again."

"It's good to see you too, sister," I reply.

"Emm!" Lissa's response is a fair bit more energetic, and she launches herself into a tactical hug strike that the Most Exalted receives with open arms. "I'm so glad you're safe!"

Emm's eyes don't harden - I think she's physically incapable of that - but even the absence of kindness in them is painful. "Chrom?"

I sigh. Better to admit it now, I suppose. "We were…ambushed on the way here, Emm. The Mafia wanted to take me hostage. Sully stopped them, though." _And a refugee with a sniper rifle_, I add mentally. Not a sentence I ever expected to use.

"Chrom, I know you mean well, but this is why I do not want you involved with the Pastukhs," she replies, stress creeping into her voice. "You are enough of a target as my brother, let alone leader of a vigilante group."

"Emm, the people need me," I say, with more steel than I really need in my voice. "What good am I signing papers and attending galas while criminals steal from, murder and rape our citizens?" I see Nikita's terrified face in my mind, her shallow breathing, the anguish in her eyes. "What good am I if I'm not there for them when they need me?" I end hollowly, staring at my feet.

She embraces me, and I quietly accept the gesture, eyes closed so I don't weep all over her expensive carpet. "I know, Chrom," she whispers, and I can tell she's thinking of our father. "I'm sorry." I wipe my eyes clear as we break apart, and she smiles softly.

"Why don't we talk about something more pleasant. Lissa, how is your friend Maribelle doing?"

0o0o0

Our meeting went peacefully enough after that. As we exit the royal palace, Sully grumbles at the three of us about Virion's various misadventures in the nearby marketplace. He didn't break anything or shoot anyone, though, so I consider it a victory.

Sully drives us back to the Pastukhs' base. Frederick's already arranged for our other car to be towed away and repaired, along with a paint job and a new licence plate. The bodies are gone, too, but even Virion is silenced by the grim red streaks left where they died. I don't think even the rain will wash that away.

We return to a base in remarkable order, given that Stahl had to hold the fort for nearly an entire day. It's ironic, but the trained negotiator is usually utterly incapable of stopping the others from trying to kill each other. Lissa runs past him, panickedly muttering something about Maribelle, while Frederick squeezes between us, silently making his way towards the lounge room. Stahl grins tiredly at me as I walk in, offering something vaguely resembling a salute. "Welcome back, captain."

"Good to see you, Stahl. How is everyone?"

"Maribelle's been in a state ever since Lissa sent her a text message about the attack. Vaike thinks you must have punched someone so hard their heart exploded, and Sumia dropped by with some take-away for dinner."

He frowns as Sully and Virion walk in. "Who the heck is that, Sully?"

She gives him a flat look. "You're a fucking shitty swearer, Stahl. This is Virion. He's from Australia."

"Oh!" Stahl exclaims, switching to English. "Hello, uh, Virion. Nice to meet you."

The sniper waves him off. "No need, Stahl; I'm fluent. Nice to meet you, though."

"Huh, okay. What brings you here?"

The cold stare he gets in return chills me to the bone. Stahl just glances away. "I meant to the Pastukhs, not to Ylisse. That's, uh, yeah."

Smiling again, Virion replies, "I saved your prince when some thugs had him cornered this morning." He casts a glance around our base, the juxtaposition of military and civilian life that my world has become. "And I suppose Chrom recognises talent when he sees it." His glance wanders to Sully. "He certainly recognises-"

His next comment is cut off by a kick to the shin. "Seriously, Ruffles? How long is this going to take?" Sully spits. "Anyway." She turns to me. "I got no issues if you want to make him a Pastukh, as long as I can keep hitting him when he's being stupid."

"You'd keep doing it even if I said you couldn't," I respond with a grin. "But yes, we could use people like Virion in the Pastukhs. He's a bit rough around the edges, but you don't see talent like that with a rifle often."

"Hungry, captain?" Stahl asks. "I'm famished, and Sumia got Japanese." I nod my approval, and the four of us make our way towards the kitchen, where Fred's helping serve the food Sumia brought. If there's one 'benefit' of China's 'war', I reflect darkly, it's that Ylisse has arguably the best Japanese food in the world now.

The girl in question is humming peaceably to herself as she doles out a wide variety of dishes. She looks up in surprise when I walk in, and shouts "Captain!" Running over to meet me, she manages to entangle herself in three different chairs and falls over in a heap.

"Are you okay, Sumia?" I ask. She pulls herself back up, avoiding eye contact as she brushes herself off. "I don't think the heels help." They really don't - she's not a Pastukh, technically, so she doesn't really need practical footwear, but three-inch heels when you're naturally clumsy on your feet is still a bad idea.

"Y-You noticed?" she says, blushing. "I was so tired of people calling me short."

"There are more important things in life than your height," I dictate almost-wisely.

"You'll be taller standing up than falling down, high heels or not!" Sully barks at her, and Sumia shrinks away. "Anyway, enough bellyaching about being short, let's goddamn eat already!"

With the six of us to serve, the food's out in the lounge room in short order. Vaike challenges Virion to an arm-wrestle, which he wisely refuses, while Sully manages to not use the words 'rape' or 'fuck' for an entire conversation with Nikita. She seems to be getting along well enough with everyone so far, which is good to see. The Japanese food baffled her for a moment, but she managed to figure out how the chopsticks worked through trial and error faster than any of us did with instruction.

When the meal is over and people start retiring to their rooms for the night, it's soon just me, Sumia and Nikita. They're both giving each other a look, and I don't like it. Sumia's had a crush on me for what feels like forever, and while she's a good friend, I honestly don't feel that way for her. Nikita's a rape survivor clinging to her saviour, and I'm not the sort of person to exploit that.

"I," I begin, "have had a very long day. Goodnight, Nikita, Sumia." I get out of there before either of them can protest, and my dreams are troubled by golden teeth, my father's face, and the cracking report of a hundred thousand _Naginata_.

0o0o0

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please, leave a review if you have anything to say.

First things first: thanks to the kind people who have faved, followed or reviewed _Waking Up_! It gave me a lot of motivation to keep writing. Unfortunately, my internet access is limited at best, so something I write might take days or even weeks until I can upload it. Sorry for the delay!

There's some fairly major divergences in terms of geopolitics in this universe. I'm not good enough to choose one point in time and change everything from there, but to cut a long story short, China is expansionistic as all hell, and the US is unwilling or unable to stop them. Three guesses as to what Australia and Japan are supposed to represent in-game and the first two don't count.

For whatever reason, I love using the word 'Naginata' in relation to Fire Emblem: Awakening. It just _sounds cool_. In this case, it's an AK-47 derivative created back during the Cold War.

I don't want any ship-to-ship combat over Chrom/Sumia and Chrom/Avatar. I prefer Chrom/Cordelia anyway, as my other fic shows clearly (/shamlessplug), but I know people on all sides of this argument can be complete lunatics about it. So don't be.

Thanks for reading, see you next time!

Ungulateman


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